


Pieta

by eretria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Gen, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eretria/pseuds/eretria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He'd seen Sherlock asleep before, knocked out by pure exhaustion when he'd once again pushed his body, which just couldn't keep up with his brain, too far. He'd seen wrung out Sherlock, bored Sherlock, incensed Sherlock, disdainful Sherlock. He'd never, however, seen such a look of peace on his face before.  </i>
</p><p> </p><p>A quiet, timeless moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieta

**Author's Note:**

> A little breather before tonight's episode is certain to slay us all.
> 
> Beta-read by murron and Auburn, Brit-picking by tehomet. Thank you, lovelies!

_'Incapable of getting up off the sofa,' _the text message from Mary read. _'Bring me food, husband.'___

As he got ready to order Mary's Chicken Jalfrezi (something she'd never gone for before the pregnancy), his phone buzzed with the arrival of another text message. _'Pindi Chole,'_ it read. _'Extra Raita.'_

"It's like I have two wives," John said conversationally to the waitress taking his order. "Only one is infinitely more rude." 

He ignored the confused blink and ordered his own dish. 

____

***

John opened the door to the flat – Baker Street, of course it was Baker Street; Mary was spending a lot more time with Sherlock these days – with a sarcastic greeting on his lips, but the words died when he realised the flat was dark. John stepped into the room as quietly as possibly and set the takeaway bags down, wriggling his fingers in relief as the blood returned to the digits. 

Coming back to Baker Street always brought back a flood of memories, memories triggered by the typical scents of the flat: dust, books, traces of chemicals, singed hair, ash in the fireplace, and the background scent of fried bacon or fresh scones wafting up from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. And always, always, even when he wasn't in, even after – John took a deep breath and firmly shoved that particular devil back in its box – traces of the warm spiciness that was Sherlock's cologne. He'd never changed it, not once since John had known him. John had always marvelled how his choice of cologne seemed to contrast with his personality – or at least the personality other people saw.

He felt a smile crinkle the sides of his eyes when they got used to the darkness and he could take in the scene in front to him. 

Light from the lamppost outside showed Mary sitting in the far right corner of the sofa, her legs drawn up and resting on the leather cushion, covered by the striped wool blanket John knew was from Sherlock's bedroom. She appeared to be asleep. Her chin had sunk to her chest in a posture that would require John's skills as a devoted amateur masseuse later. The light haloed her hair and John could smell the lingering traces of her subtle perfume now mingling with the spicy scent wafting from the bags he'd set down.

Mary asleep on the sofa was nothing unusual. What was, though, was the man sitting next to, or rather, resting against her. 

Something strange happened in John's chest when his gaze settled on Sherlock. John was a doctor, he should know precisely what it was, but he didn't, could only witness as his heart seemed to swell and contract at the same time at the sight in front of him.

Sherlock had never been the most tactile person, yet here he was now, upper body sunken low on the sofa, legs bent and angled to his right. The hem of his dark red dressing gown pooled in front of the sofa. Sherlock was resting with the side of his face pressed against the gentle swell of Mary's belly and his hand was curled protectively around the curve of it. His long violinist's fingers spanned almost the entire side of Mary's stomach. She wasn't all that far along yet, but far enough that both she and John had felt the baby kicking. Sherlock had evaded them when Mary had first offered to have him feel the surprisingly forceful kicks as well. He had been refusing ever since.

John remembered only too well the first time Mary had taken his hand and placed it on her belly: the delighted wonder, the mixture of outright terror and indescribable joy, the jolt that went through his entire body when he first felt the baby kick. He wondered if Sherlock had reacted the same way, wondered how Mary had managed to make him come out of his self-imposed inner exile, and he regretted not having been there to witness either.

Sherlock's face was hidden in darkness for the most part, though John could make out that his eyes were closed. He'd seen Sherlock asleep before, knocked out by pure exhaustion when he'd once again pushed his body, which just couldn't keep up with his brain, too far. He'd seen wrung out Sherlock, bored Sherlock, incensed Sherlock, disdainful Sherlock. He'd never, however, seen such a look of peace on his face before. 

Mary's hand rested on Sherlock's head. Her pale fingers tangled in his dark curls were a stark contrast. John could see now that she wasn't asleep; she kept combing her fingertips through Sherlock's hair in small, gentle movements. Mary loved doing that, John knew, and he loved being on the receiving end of her obsession, loved the feeling of her cool fingertips pressing against his scalp until they warmed when they were curled together in front of the telly.

Sherlock, however, _was_ asleep and John didn't know if he'd ever seen him looking so utterly vulnerable before. John's heart did the funny contraction thing again when Mary raised her head and smiled at him; radiant, warm, ephemerally beautiful.

With Sherlock in her lap, she looked like a pieta, John thought, only, he amended, the happy version of her namesake.

The quiet beauty of the scene left John breathless for some long blinks of an eye. He was tempted to pull out his phone to take a photograph, but decided against it. This, he thought, was nothing that could or should be crammed into pixels. This, he wanted to remember until the day he was old and grey, or, well, the unerringly sarcastic part of him amended, older and greyer.

He picked up the bags again and brought them into the kitchen, switching on the light over the cooker. The crackling of the plastic bags was loud as he put them down on the kitchen table, nearly drowning out the sound of an idling cab outside on the street and a police siren's wail in the distance. 

John felt Mary's gaze follow him, so he picked up the kettle and turned toward her, miming a pouring gesture.

She mouthed a silent, "Please," combined with an apologetic twist of her mouth toward Sherlock.

John smiled and reached for the teapot and the tin with the decaf Ceylon. Not having to think about the mundane task of making tea allowed him to sneak glances in Mary's and Sherlock's direction while he waited for the kettle to boil. John had taken off the kettle's whistle so Sherlock wouldn't wake, but when he didn't stir even when the tin's lid clattered to the ground, John knew that Sherlock would sleep through just about any racket and wouldn't wake for anything less than his phone ringing.

The low table in front of the sofa was strewn with maps and print-outs from Sherlock's latest case, so John decided in favour of the tray. The tea cosy – a gift from Mrs. Hudson who lamented Sherlock always letting his tea go cold – was soft against his thumb when he picked up the tray and went back into the living room.

Mary carefully unfolded her legs and reached out her free hand for John once he'd set the tray down on top of the paperwork. John followed, mindful of the creaky floorboard in front of the sofa and squeezed in next to Mary. She angled her face toward him for a brief kiss that tasted of the lip balm she preferred. He could never tell if it was supposed to be peach or mango. This close, he could see that she was tired but was fighting sleep. The minimal make-up she wore was smudged around her eyes from where she must have rubbed at them earlier. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she caught his questioning look toward Sherlock. Bits of mascara made the crinkles appear deeper than John knew they were.

"Just nodded off in mid-sentence," she murmured. "Like flipping a switch." 

John smiled in return. "He does that," he acknowledged. "Though usually only when he hasn't slept in days."

"And here I thought my sparkling personality put him to sleep," she quipped.

"Maybe the baby hypnotised him."

John felt Mary's chuckle against his entire side. "We should keep that in mind for future reference. Never know when we'll need it."

Future reference. John felt an ugly knot loosen in his chest. It was one he wasn't fully aware had been there, that had just been this obstacle, something heavy pressing against his lungs that had made breathing just slightly more of an effort than it usually was whenever he saw Sherlock after the wedding.

Future reference. Future. 

Sherlock's hand twitched against Mary's belly, but the delicate, strong fingers John had seen handling anything from bloodied harpoons to the violin never relinquished the contact or changed their protective curl.

"He's been doing that whenever the baby kicks," Mary explained and the knot in John's chest disappeared entirely, left his heart and lungs wide open.

He took a deep breath, then tucked his head between Mary's shoulder and her neck and looked down over the growing fullness of her breasts to the dark mop of Sherlock's curls resting against her belly. John felt a frown drawing his brows together. The average human head weighed between eight and twelve pounds. Sherlock's, considering his massive brain, probably weighed more than fifteen. Wasn't it – ?

"He's not heavy," Mary whispered against John's hair, proving once more that she had missed her calling as a mind-reader. Her breath left a lingering warmth in its wake.

"He's not your brother, though," John said. A mistake, that. He wouldn't be able to get the silly song out of his head for hours now.

Mary chuckled, a lovely, low, full-bodied sound whose echoing tremor seeped into John's skin and settled in his bones. Reaching around him and bracketing John's body with her arm, Mary took his hand and set it to the crown of Sherlock's head. She covered it with hers, holding it between the cool silkiness of Sherlock's curls and the warmth of her hand. "No. He's family."

John closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of his wife and his best friend; familiar shampoos, lotions, colognes, and skin and realised that he had never been as content in his life as he was in this moment. He threaded his fingers through the strands of dark hair to feel the heat of Sherlock's scalp against his fingertips while the palm of Mary's hand cocooned them both. 

It wasn't just Sherlock who was family.

They were.


End file.
